


Untitled

by Cyranodebergerac



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk Dean, F/M, Fluff, Jealousy, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:56:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyranodebergerac/pseuds/Cyranodebergerac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets jealous, then drunk, then angry and possessive, then cute, then sweet. In that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> I've been going back and forth between posting this and not posting it, but I'm just gonna post it now. Please be kind. Probably a one-shot, but maybe potential for more (but prob not because I suck at chapter writing). Enjoy!

Dean Winchester had never had a woman for long enough to ever truly understand what it meant to be jealous. Sure, he’s experienced that knotted feeling in his gut occasionally when another guy walked up to a girl in a bar that he’d been eyeing… but most girls would usually end up coming his way by the end of the night regardless (and boy, the things small victories like that did for his ego), but no girl had ever been his for more than a night... or two, if he was lucky. He had no idea how bad that knotted feeling in his gut could get. Not until he had her. 

Well, no… Because he hasn’t _had_ her. She had been very consistent in making it crystal clear that she had no plans to sleep with him (but “thanks for asking”) since she'd started hunting with them about a year back. But that sure as shit didn't stop Dean from offering every so often. 

In any case, she was pretty much his in almost every other aspect, in very much the same way Sam was his and Castiel was his. He would die for her. For any other person, that would be a melodramatic declaration, for Dean Winchester it was a clause-free guarantee. And he knew it wasn't right to think that he had any right to her bodily or otherwise because of it, but when she sidled up to some nameless, faceless bar fly (okay, well obviously he wasn't neither nameless or faceless, but he might as well have been 'cause all Dean saw was red) tossing her hair over her shoulder in that same alluring way that she did when she was trying to ply him for something, he could feel a clawed hand fisting his stomach and intestines. He vaguely registered a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff in the vicinity of where Sam was sitting, and felt his cheeks and the tops of his ears warm. He took a long swig of his beer before setting it back down, refusing to dignify his brother’s teasing with his attention. As Isobel traced an enticing line down up and down the nobody’s chest with the tip of her finger, he promptly picked his beer back up and downed the remainder. Dean gestured to the barkeep for another round.

Five beers, a handful of shots of whiskey later, and probably some number of hours later (at least he hoped it had been a couple of hours, otherwise he had drank way too much alcohol in way too little time), Dean was sitting alone as Sam had wandered back over to their motel located in the same seedy ass plaza as this seedy ass bar they were in (but not before clasping a hand on his older brother’s shoulder and declaring that what he was doing was “seriously creepy as hell”). He was still watching Izzy, who was now playing pool with the guy. When she leaned over the edge of the table to take a shot, he leaned over her under the guise of giving her some pro-pointers. Dean rolled his eyes and screwed his face up in distaste. She didn’t need any damn pointers; if she ever did, she could ask Dean and not this dumbass. She was just as good as Dean was at pool, though he would never admit it to her face.

A few minutes later, the pair sat back down at the bar and the guy ordered them two beers without asking Izzy if she wanted something else. Dean watched her eye it and take a tentative sip. Her face contorted a little as she set the bottle down and discreetly pushed it away from herself. The guy didn’t take notice, but Dean did, of course he did! Clouded as his thinking was by - he thinks it’s probably 6 beers now - he knew Izzy didn’t drink beer! He gave her shit for it all the time. This idiot didn't give a crap about Izzy, he just wanted to get it in. And hell if Dean was gonna let that happen! He polished off the remainder of his mostly empty bottle of beer and staggered over to the bar. Like literally staggered. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this drunk. 

“Hey, you freakin… punk,” he slurred, leaning on the bar immediately to Izzy’s right, close enough so that his arm touched hers. He leaned forward and glared at the guy, vaguely noting Izzy’s scandalized face as he did so. 

“Who the hell do you think you are?,” the guy said, sitting up straighter on his bar stool and returning Dean’s hard stare. 

“My girl…,” Dean paused as he half burped, half hiccuped, “my girl don’t drink no stinkin beer.”

“Dean, what the fuck,” Izzy exclaimed, turning on her seat to face him fully. 

He met her gaze, angry as it was, and held her stare, seemingly blissfully (or rather, drunkenly) unaware that she was mad at him. He placed his two large hands on her slender shoulders before saying, “Baby, he doesn’t.. he doesn’t..”

Dean paused, held a finger out to her as if to ask for a moment, and then placed this finger to his lips in thought. 

“Izzy, who is this fuckin loser?,” the guy asked. 

“Don’t fuckin call my girl Izzy, you douchelord,” Dean snarled, lunging toward him drunkenly, forgetting that Izzy was in between them both. 

“Dean!,” Izzy shouted, shoving him backward so that he clumsily landed on the bar stool behind him, “what in the actual fuck are you doing right now!?”

“Forget this shit. You’re fine as hell, girl, but not worth the trouble. I’m outta here,” the guy muttered, standing and walking over to a group of guys who appeared to know him. 

“Yeah, you better walk away,” Dean grumbled when the guy was out of earshot. He picked up Izzy’s rejected beer bottle and upended it into his mouth, finishing about half the bottle in one long swig.

Izzy glared daggers and shoved him again before storming out of the bar. As soon as Dean stood back up again and got his bearings, he lumbered after her. 

“Izzy, don’t you walk away from me,” he slurred, trailing behind her in the parking lot.

“I can’t even…,” Izzy started, still walking towards the motel and not facing him, “Seriously, D. What in the fuck?”

“That guy’s an asshole!,” Dean declared, despite the fact that the only thing the guy had done wrong per se was that he had hit on his girl. Well… his pseudo-girl or… whatever. 

“Dean, I’m not trying the marry the guy, or even date him... c’mon,” she sighed defeatedly, finally stopping in her tracks and turning to face him, “You know just as well as I do, probably even better, that the kinda life we lead is lonely as shit. Sometimes, you just need a good lay, someone willing to keep you warm at night, just for a night.”

Dean scoffed and put his hands on his hips before sheepishly saying, “... not that douchelord.” 

“Dean…,” Izzy began, and she had her warning tone on. Had Dean been just a touch more sober than he would have recognized that it was time to drop the subject before she started throwing fists and threats to his manhood. 

“He’s…,” Dean paused in drunken thought and again put a finger to his lips thoughtfully (an action she would have found both adorable and endearing was she not 10000% upset with him) before finishing his sentence, “... ugly. You’re so pretty, Izzy. Too pretty for that.. that ugly douchelord.”

He sloppily staggered toward her and she was anxious for a second; he looked like he would topple over with any more attempts at movement. He went to hug her… or at least she thought he was trying to hug her, but he was pretty much just slumped onto her, arms around her waist and cheek resting on her head. They stood like that for a minute, maybe two, before Dean’s breathing deepened and Izzy started feeling like her hair was getting wet, like maybe he was drooling on her head. 

“Dean,” she said in a hushed but urgent tone of voice as she poked him in the side. His only response was a grunt so she slid a cold hand under his shirt. He outright yelped and startled awake, distancing himself from her with two large, clumsy steps. He looked at her, looking scandalized and betrayed in an amusing way that made her anger decrease by about 9990%.

“You were drooling into my hair,” she said in explanation. His face softened and he looked comically remorseful, like he had just committed a terrible crime against her. He pulled the sleeve of his flannel down over his hand and reached out to her slowly... Like hilariously slowly because Izzy had to choke down a laugh. He looked so determined. 

“Izzy, I am so sorry,” he said as he indelicately patted her head to mop up his spit, “... your beautiful hair.” 

She outright laughed, her heart warming at the heartwrenchingly genuine shame on Dean’s face, endearing drunk that he was. She reached up and pulled his hand away from her hair, where it rested heavily as if he had forgotten how to move it as he silently searched her face for forgiveness.

“It’s okay, Dean,” she assured him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before letting it go. 

He stood a little straighter and looked relieved as he asked, “Do you forgive me?”

“Of course, D,” she said, sincerely, “I can never stay mad at you.”

Dean smiled at her, literally beamed, and something in her chest squeezed and traveled into her throat. She stared at him for a moment, almost dumbfounded by the sensation. After gathering her thoughts, she offered him a small smile, held her hand out and said, “C’mon, big guy. Let’s get you to bed. You’re probably gonna have one hell of a headache tomorrow, and it’s still going to be your turn to run and get breakfast. That’ll be punishment enough.”

“I wanna stay with you,” Dean declared as she dragged him by the hand across the remainder of the parking lot to their motel, “Because you smell prettier than Sam.”

She laughed at his reasoning and said, “You’re not sleeping in the same bed as him, D.”

“Don’t matter. I’ll still know he smells not pretty like you,” he answered, tapping his temple for emphasis, “And your hair is prettier.”

Izzy laughed hard at that and Dean grinned, pleased with himself, before saying, “But don’t tell him I said that.”

They came to a stop outside of their side by side motel rooms and though she usually stayed in the same room as the boys, she had gotten her own room for the night in hopes of taking someone from the bar back with her. She paused for a beat before releasing his hand and nodding her head (some part of her told her she should have said no, or at least put more effort into making it look like she was debating). She fished her key out of her back pocket and opened up the door. Dean walked in and immediately fell face down into the bed and kicked his boots off. He mumbled something into the pillow as Izzy removed her jacket and shoes. She laid down on her side next to him and propped her head up in her hand to look at him. 

“I can’t hear you with a mouth full of pillow, Dean,” she told him, resting her free hand gently on the back of his neck and kneading softly. He made a quiet, contented sound that made her heart hammer quickly in her ribcage before he turned to look at her. He met her eyes and deliberately held her gaze in a way that made her think that he had magically sobered up in the 30 seconds he had been laying face down. The silence felt serious and heavy and she let her hand fall back down to rest on the bed in the space between them, uncertainty settling into her stomach. 

He narrowed his eyes at the hand she had let fall as if it had offended him and she laughed a little before returning it to the back of his neck, this time scratching lightly at the short hairs at his nape. He shut his eyes and sighed happily before explaining, “I said, that guy didn’t even ask you what you wanted to drink.”

She waited for him to continue, but when he didn’t (because honestly, he felt like that statement explained everything), she prompted him with an, “And?”

He kept his eyes closed as he answered her, “Aaaaaannd," he drew out the short word exaggeratedly, "you can’t fuck a guy like that, babygirl. No manners.” 

She scoffed and one of his eyes opened up, “Sure, Dean,” she acquiesced, not wanting to try and argue with his drunken logic.

“You know I’m right, Izzy,” he said, rolling over to lay on his back and then opening his arms to her. She crawled into him, resting her head on his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. 

“Sure, Dean,” she repeated, feelings her eyelids get heavy as she began tracing small circles into the cotton of his black t-shirt. 

“You deserve better,” he told her quietly as he started drawing his own shapes onto the skin of the small of her back where her shirt had hiked up a little.

She made a noncommittal sound in response and her hand fell flat onto his chest. He listened to her breathing even out and then nudged her a little. 

“Hey,” he whispered, “are you asleep?”

She cuddled in closer to him, deciding that he had not, in fact, magically sobered up, and in a sleepy voice that hinted at amusement said, “Not anymore, D. Did you wanna tell me what kinda guy I should be on the lookout for before I can go to sleep?”

“Yeah,” he said, “yeah, I do.”

He ran his fingers through her long, dark hair and watched his hand as he did so, as if mesmerized by the movement (but actually more by the fact that this was really happening). He was quiet for a long time and Izzy thought that maybe he had fallen asleep, but didn't want to wake him if he had. She listened to his heartbeat and had almost drifted off again when she heard him say, “Someone who loves you.”

She didn’t say anything for a long beat and just smiled into his shirt, touched by the sentiment. He stopped stroking her hair, gave a forced little embarrassed cough, as if it would drown out the words he had already said. She laughed a little at his unease and brought her hand up to cup the side of his face in reassurance.

“Or someone who at least asks you what you wanna drink,” he grumbled, placing a kiss onto the top of her head.

She squeezed him affectionately and then fell asleep shortly after, feeling warmer and more content than she had in a long time.

\- - 

The next morning, she was woken up by some fairly urgent shaking. Her initial thought was to reach for the handgun she had hidden in between the mattress and the box spring and handle it (whatever _It_ was), but then she heard Dean’s voice, “Hey. Izzy! I’m goin for breakfast.”

She pulled the comforter over her head grumpily. He knew what she liked to eat for breakfast. They had done this often enough, he didn’t need to wake her if he didn’t already have food in his hands.

“Then go,” she whined testily, “And let me sleep, you terrible person.”

He laughed at her, tugged the blanket down just enough to expose the top her head and placed a kiss there for the second time in 24 hours. 

“I will,” he replied, “But what do you wanna drink?”


End file.
